


Bang Shang-a-Lang

by lightsaroundyourvanity



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, F/F, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsaroundyourvanity/pseuds/lightsaroundyourvanity
Summary: Betty Cooper thinks that all she's landed is a hot story when she's asked to interview up-and-coming actress Veronica Lodge.





	1. Chapter 1

Betty loves her job.  Really. But at an 8:00 A.M. pitch meeting, she’s having the teensiest bit of trouble remembering that, as she clutches an extra-large coffee in one hand and stifles an enormous yawn. Her jaw cracks, loud enough that Betty snaps her mouth shut and lets her glance dart guiltily through the room.

It’s only a moment before Betty lets herself believe she’s in the clear and off the hook, but it’s an excruciating one. She hates it when she slips, even for a heartbeat. She’d been up too late the night before. Her mother had called, right before bed, angry about… something. But the bottom line was it had taken well over an hour to defuse and now Betty was seriously lacking in REM. And her attention is wandering again. 

Her glance lands on Kevin Keller, mostly because Betty notices that he’s not paying attention either. He catches her eye, and makes a face. Betty hides her smile behind her coffee cup. Kevin wrote TV reviews and quippy tweets for Riverags. Betty mostly did interviews. They crossed paths a lot, and made an excellent work buddy cop duo. Betty was grateful for their friendship daily: when she veered towards A-type oversaturation, Kevin could always be counted on to soften her with irreverence. 

At the moment, he was softening the drone of Waldo Weatherbee, Riverags’ editor. Why an ex-high school principal had switched careers in his fifties to open a lifestyle and entertainment blog was still a mystery to Betty. To his credit, Weatherbee was a great boss – a little high strung at times, but what good editor wasn’t? But in meetings like this one, Betty couldn’t help but be reminded of the endless morning announcements she’d endured during homeroom as a teenager.

“We have a unique interview opportunity this week. It’s a tight deadline, but I think you’ll all agree it’s well worth it.”

Betty jolts to attention when she hears _interview._ When she finally looks to Weatherbee, he’s staring directly at her, and Betty resists the urge to sink sheepishly lower in her chair. Instead, she meets Weatherbee’s eyes and tries to instill a little confidence in her spine.

“Veronica Lodge has finally agreed to talk to the press,” Weatherbee continues.

An instant, hushed murmur brushes over the room. The staff of Riverags, used to professionally mingling with the odd celebrity, tended to be a blasé bunch, but Veronica Lodge was a notable, topical exception. She was a beautiful, talented rising starlet, but more importantly, she carried the whiff of fresh scandal. Four weeks ago, she had stepped onto the set of her biggest film to date, and promptly gotten herself tangled up in an affair with her married costar. An onset romance, even an illicit one, wasn’t quite enough to turn heads these days, but when the costar in question had been Cheryl Blossom, one half of Cheggie, tinseltown’s most infamous celeb couple? The heads had turned, and the tabloids had exploded. It was all anybody could talk about, but Veronica had been keeping a low profile and refusing interviews.

Until now.

Betty looks to Kevin, who stares back with his eyebrows raised, and then back to Weatherbee, dutifully inquisitive.

Weatherbee waits a moment for the buzz to die down and adds, “But as I said… it’s a tight deadline. She’s agreed to a lunch. Today.” Weatherbee looks pointedly at Betty. “You up for it, Cooper?”

“Um.” Betty gulps. “Lunch?”

“I did say it was short notice.”

Betty agrees to the interview. Of course she does. Twenty minutes later she’s at her desk, scrambling to open her laptop and pull up a word file with her generic stock of interview questions. She swivels in her chair to plug her computer into the nearby outlet, and her elbow knocks the coffee cup she’d haphazardly left on the edge of her desk. It tips, and Betty is mentally prepared to swear a blue streak, when Kevin reaches out and catches the cup. He holds it up.

“Good save,” Betty says gratefully.

Kevin doesn’t hand it back. “You know, I think there’s a rule that when you start knocking them over, you’ve had enough.”

“But you caught it,” Betty points out. “And I need it.” She reaches for the coffee and Kevin sighs, relents, and hands it back.

“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer,” Kevin says, as Betty takes a long swig.

“Maybe,” Betty says. She turns back to her laptop. “But at least my homework will be done.”

 

Three hours later, Betty was walking into Pop Tate’s, a nearby twenty-four hour diner. She knows it well; it’s a popular haunt with the Riverags staff. But she’s surprised a glamorous young actress would pick it as a venue.

She’s meeting Veronica at noon. It’s 11:30 now. Betty firmly believed that a good reporter was an early one. She picks out a booth near the back of the restaurant, and settles in. A moment later, Pop Tate himself arrives, and Betty smiles at him.

“Can I get you anything?” asks Pop.

“Not just yet,” Betty says. “I’m meeting someone for an interview shortly.” 

Pop Tate nods and wanders away, and Betty pulls out her slapdash notes to look over them one last time.

Just before twelve, the little brass bell above the front door jangles. Betty looks up, and gets her first real glimpse of Veronica Lodge.

Admittedly, Betty has seen few (if any) of Veronica’s movies. Her oeuvre skewed more towards indie darling, and given her druthers, Betty liked the kind of movies that starred familiar faces in plots based on best sellers from the airport. But since she also didn’t live in a cave, she’d had an idea of who to look out for.

Veronica is smaller than Betty had expected – she sails into the room, and the first thing Betty realizes is that were they to stand next to each other, she would tower over Veronica. Her glance scrolls down Veronica’s body, her legs, and to her feet. Yes, even in those high heeled boots. Betty looks Veronica over again, and she takes her time with it. Despite being certifiably tiny, Veronica Lodge knows how to fill a space. She wore a string of pearls around her neck, and sharp, expectant expression in her huge brown eyes. Every other soul in Pop Tate’s was looking at her, and from the way Veronica stood, her head tilted and her eyebrow cocked, she knew it.

Betty jumps out of her seat and clears her throat, intending to head over and introduce herself to Veronica, but before she can take a step, Veronica catches sight of her, and makes her way to the corner booth.

“Are you with Riverags?” Veronica asks Betty, almost tentatively.

“Wow. Good guess.” Betty wipes her hands on the thighs of her jeans. She feels sudden, unexpected nerves. “Yes, hello! I’m Betty Cooper.” She sticks out her hand for Veronica to shake.

Veronica takes Betty’s hand delicately, but her handshake is strong. “You make your presence known,” she says, and looks pointedly at the fallen stack of notebooks spread over the table.

Betty feels the faintest beginnings of a blush stain her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m a little um. Discombobulated this morning.” She leans over the diner table and starts to push her paperwork into a more manageable pile. Way to make an impression, Cooper!

Veronica sniffs, but Betty looks up and sees that she’s smiling. “Don’t worry about it,” Veronica says dryly, “I’ve been a little discombobulated for the last six years.”

Betty laughs. It’s part nerves, but there’s also something infectious about Veronica. Betty can already see why she makes such a popular actress. “Sit down, please,” she says to Veronica. “Can I order you anything? Have you eaten?”

“My agent would never speak to me again, but I’d kill for an order of onion rings and a black-and-white shake,” Veronica admits. She sinks gracefully into the booth opposite Betty.

Within seconds, Betty catches Pop Tate’s eye and ushers him back to the table. “Two black-and-white shakes,” she tells him. With a glance at Veronica, she adds, “And an order of onion rings.” Betty smiles at Veronica, conspiratorial. “We can leave that part out of the interview.”

Pop Tate shuffles away, and Veronica grins. Betty busies herself setting up her yellow reporter’s pad and tape recorder. She looks to Veronica. “Do you mind if I start recording us?”

“A woman who likes to cut to the chase, I see.”

Betty bites her lip. “Sorry. Am I rushing you?”

“No, no. Go ahead.” Veronica casually flaps her hand. A diamond studded bracelet twinkles on her wrist. Her nails are short and bare, but impeccably maintained.

“Great.” Betty reaches forward and clicks her tape recorder on. “While we’re waiting on our order, maybe we can start with the basics. Can you tell me about what you’re wearing?”

Veronica arches one perfect brow. “Seriously?”

“I know.” Betty makes a face. “But the readers like hearing about it.”

“I guess I should be grateful you didn’t open with an inquisition,” Veronica admits. Their shakes arrive, and she sips hers. Betty tries not to stare at the perfect ring of dark red lipstick that is left on Veronica’s straw. Veronica leans back in her seat and flips her the shiny bell of her hair. “The shoes are Elie Saab, the jacket is Marc Jacobs,” she rattles off, “The dress isn’t worth anything. I found it in a charity shop.”

“And your pearls?” Betty asks.

“Oh, they’re—they’re an heirloom.” Veronica absently touches the pearls at her throat. “You’d have to ask my mother.”

It’s a reminder that Veronica doesn’t just _have_ money, but _comes_ from money, and Betty wonders if it’s a deliberate power move. In any case, it would be bad journalism to get her hackles up over it.

“You’ve cause a bit of a stir lately,” Betty says instead, leading.

Veronica sighs. She’s blunt when she says, “I really don’t want to talk about Cheryl Blossom.”

Betty feels a muscle near her eye twitch. _Great._ “What would you like to talk about, then?” she asks Veronica. She keeps her features bland, her voice pleasant.

Meanwhile, Veronica shrugs. “I don’t know. My agent asked me to do an interview to break the silence, but I just…” she shrugs again, and takes a long drink from her milkshake, looking forlorn. A moment later, she laughs. “God. I’m making one hell of an impression, aren’t I?”

“You’re doing great,” Betty says encouragingly. She resists the urge to fidget, tap her pen against her notepad, or fill the air with conversation. It’s in Betty’s nature to want others to feel at ease, and besides that, there’s something about Veronica that makes her feel… unexpectedly tender. It isn’t just that Veronica is devastatingly sexy, although of course she is, or that she’s mysterious or charismatic, though she’s both of those things too. There’s a frankness, a vulnerability to Veronica, that intrigues Betty. It’s a side of Veronica that Betty suspects a lot of people don’t take the time to see, which is a shame, because she’s completely magnetic.

“I want to be a good person,” Veronica says, after a very long pause. “But I’m afraid I don’t know how to be. I’m afraid the world doesn’t want me to be.”

Betty leans forward, but doesn’t say anything. She cocks her head, as though to say, _go on._

“It’s like I’m trying to be Mary Pickford, but Theda Bara comes so much more easily,” Veronica continues. She frowns thoughtfully, a tiny crinkle appearing on her forehead between her eyebrows. “Cheryl… Cheryl really brought out that side of me. Not that I’m blaming her for adding that happened between us,” Veronica hastily tacks on.

“What _did_ happen between you and Cheryl?” Betty asks carefully.

“Oh, you’re shrewd, Betty Cooper.” Veronica’s voice is teasing, but a new, guarded note has entered it. 

Betty feels her heart sink. She knows what she should be doing right now: Keep pushing. Keep prying until Veronica opens up. Betty’s close to getting her scoop, she can feel it. But Veronica’s words echo in her mind, _I want to be a good person_ , and Betty realizes that her curiosity about this woman has rocketed so far past professional. And Betty can’t explain it, but she reaches out with her hand, and shuts off the tape recorder.

True surprise flashes across Veronica’s face for the first time since she walked into Pop Tate’s. “Is the interview over?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Betty puts down her pen. “I thought maybe you’d be more comfortable talking off the record for a bit.”

“Oh.” Veronica looks like she’s turning something else over in her head, but then Pop Tate arrives with their onion rings, and Veronica’s eyes alight on the plate. “Genuinely uncanny timing,” she remarks. “I’d die knowing that three minutes of your recording was just me scarfing down fried onions.”

Veronica eats two onion rings on the spot, and Betty is startled into laughter, and the earlier tension breaks.

An hour later, Betty and Veronica have polished off their milkshakes, the onion rings, a slice of apple pie a la mode, and compared essential childhood notes like Spice Girl avatars and slumber party movie must-haves ( _Heathers_ for Veronica, _Drive Me Crazy_ for Betty).

Betty still hasn’t turned her tape recorder back on.

“Are you going to be in trouble?” Veronica asks. Her eyes flick briefly towards the tape recorder.

“Oh, I…” Betty flounders and then shrugs. Truthfully, she knows she doesn’t have anything for Weatherbee to get excited about. “I have enough to throw a puff piece together,” she says, settling for a half-truth.

Veronica’s pretty features show an open mixture of guilt and relief. “Well, I had fun hanging out. It’s nice to feel like a regular girl sometimes.”

“Me too,” Betty admits. “Had fun, I mean. I pretty much always feel like a regular girl.”

“You shouldn’t.” Veronica looks Betty over. She has an intensity that Betty’s not used to. She’s not sure if she wants to squirm away from it or tilt her face into its warmth.

“There’s nothing regular about you, Betty. I think you’re extraordinary." 

And then before Betty can say something stupid like, _thank you,_ Veronica eases out of her chair and counts out several bills.

“Good luck with your piece. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Betty doesn’t see how that’s possible -- but she wants to see Veronica again. She opens her mouth to say as much, but Veronica is already walking away, a click of heels and a waft of jasmine perfume.

Betty wonders when exactly this interview flew so completely, completely out of her control – when Veronica walked into the room? When she spoke her name? When she put her mouth on that damn milkshake straw? Betty wonders if her half-written notes and flustered tangle of thoughts have even enough material for a puff piece at this point. Maybe Kevin will help her out.

She starts to tuck away her useless notebooks and recording device, feeling like she’s just been hit over the head.

The Veronica Lodge effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a missing scene where kevin gets bitten by a radioactive spider and this is actually his origin story.


	2. Chapter 2

Veronica Lodge absolutely believes in love at first sight.

She knows that this is a little bit naïve, and a lot stubbornly romantic, but she can’t help herself. When she meets somebody new and interesting, and feels that flutter in her heart, that _zsa zsa zsu_ , it’s all she can do not to chase it. Does this ever get her into trouble? Absolutely. Inevitably. But Veronica is big on carpe diem, and in her opinion, it was a hell of a lot easier to untangle messes than spend her nights agonizing over “what-ifs”.

Although Veronica must admit: living in the moment had sort of reached a point of diminishing returns lately. 

Contrary to popular belief, she did not set out to seduce Cheryl Blossom. She wasn’t Marlene Dietrich, for crying out loud!  But when they’d first met on set, there’d been an instant attraction, the mutual respect between two queen bees. And when they’d started meeting for drinks off set, they’d let that attraction pull them closer together, their heads bent towards each other and their hearts spilling reckless secrets and hesitant tenderness. Veronica had known about Cheryl’s husband. But he had been far away, filming on location on another continent, and that much easier to ignore. She hadn’t been the first to claim a kiss. But she certainly hadn’t said no.

Okay, maybe there was a hint of Marlene in the mix.

But for a little while, it had been so, so good. Sneaking two floors down to Cheryl’s hotel room to watch old movies and stay up too late. Sharing a thousand kinds of glances, reflected in makeup mirrors, in camera lenses, in each other’s eyes. Making out in Cheryl’s trailer between scenes, like breathless teenagers. Veronica couldn’t say she’d seriously considered a _future_ with Cheryl, but she’d been too delirious in the present to care.

And then a photographer had found them. And Reggie had called Cheryl from Malta, furious and humiliated. And a scandal had been born.

Veronica hadn’t spoken to the press afterwards, but they’d ripped her to pieces all the same. Angelina vs. Jen was a tender tribute compared to some of the venom Veronica had seen spewed her way. And yes, it hurt. It really hurt. It hurt because it was mean, it hurt because it was over the top, and most of all, it hurt because it was true.

But what had been a real kick in the chest had been Cheryl. She’d turned on Veronica so immediately, and so completely.  She’d cut off contact with Veronica, offered the tabloids a handful of simpering apologies and tepid-looking nights out with Reggie, and that had been the end of it. Veronica-and-Cheryl had ceased to be, as quickly as it had ignited.

For Veronica, this was a wakeup call. She’d dragged her own reputation through the mud, and for what? The thrill of being bad? The instant gratification of lust? She didn’t want to be that person anymore. So she’d packed her bags and taken the first train to Riverdale. Since then, Veronica had mostly been sulking around her friend Katy Keene’s apartment and drumming up half-hearted plans for fluffy damage control.

Betty Cooper is blowing those plans to smithereens. It’s the last thing that Veronica expects, for a small town blonde to waltz into her affections so soon after Cheryl’s departure, but there’s no denying that Veronica hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Betty since their interview the day before. Behind those wide blue eyes and that blonde ponytail, Veronica senses the spark of a kindred spirit.

Veronica wants to see Betty again – the only question is, how? Riverdale is a small town, but Veronica doesn’t know the lay of the land well enough to start forming a game plan. She briefly considers just hanging around Pops waiting for reporters to show up, quickly discards it as desperate.

She’s still pondering this when her phone starts to buzz, and Veronica, her mind on another planet, answers without checking the caller I.D.

“Veronica Lodge!” a commanding voice trills on the other end of the phone. “Where the hell have you gone?”

Veronica winces. It’s Alexandra Cabot, her brilliant, demanding, and completely histrionic agent. She doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with this right now – maybe even ever. This really is what screening was invented for. But since there’s no getting around that she answered the phone, Veronica turns her sigh inward. “Hey Alexandra,” she says wearily. “What’s up?”

“ _What’s up?”_ Alexandra’s voice, already bordering shrill, is physically exhausting over the telephone. “Veronica, you up and _vanished._ You walked out of an _audition._ I haven’t heard from you in _days.”_

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Veronica replies.

 _“Veronica!_ ”

“Okay, okay.” Veronica inspects an unpolished fingernail. “I’m sorry, alright? Not to go all Greta Garbo on you but… I just needed to be alone for awhile. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m kind of hot gossip around town these days.”

Alexandra’s tone doesn’t soften. “That’s not my problem, Ronnie,” she says with anger-laced sweetness. “You know what is my problem? One of my clients dropping off the map with no notice.”

“Well, I can assure you that I’m still on a map,” says Veronica.

“Of New York City?”

“That I can’t say,” Veronica admits. “I’m only a train ride away, though. I’m in Riverdale, staying at Katy Keene’s.”

Alexandra’s sigh is noisy, the gusty expulsion of total frustration. “You might as well write your obituary now, Lodge. There are no lights and camera coming to a Podunk town like Riverdale.”

“Oh ye of little faith. I gave an interview yesterday.”

Alexandra doesn’t respond so much as squawk in outrage.

Veronica winces, and adds, “You said you wanted me to do more press!”

“I wanted you to do press that matters. Louella Parsons, not Jimmy Olsen. What did you even tell this town crier?”

Veronica shrugs ineffectually. “Things.” 

“ _Things.”_ Alexandra’s voice drips venom. “How vivid.”

“Look, it was a good interview. The reporter was really good. She… she just kind of got me. Does that make any sense at all?”

Veronica knows that she should elaborate. But how could she possibly? How does one explain to their irritated, excitable agent that Betty Cooper is worth trusting because when she smiles, it’s like the balm of a sacrament? Because her eyes are so blue that Veronica swears she could fall into them? She can’t. She doesn’t even know how to try, not without sounding like a smitten fool.   

Then again, that would at least be on brand for her.

Alexandra sounds less than mollified. In a clipped tone, she says, “Veronica, another month like this and your career will be shot. Nobody will remember you as anything but the Sapphic fly in the marriage of America’s sweethearts.”

Veronica makes a face. She suspects that this is true, but she doesn’t like hearing it. “Give me a little credit,” she protests. “I’m still getting good reviews for _Épreuve de force d'amour,”_ Veronica adds, citing her most recent indie venture.

“Honey, nobody but the hipster fucks at SXSW care,” says Alexandra, ever the blunt force. “I need you out there and doing things _now,_ or you’re going to end up a salacious footnote.”

“Good,” says Veronica. And then she hangs up on Alexandra.

Immediately, she feels guilty and childish. She knows that Alexandra is just trying to help her, in her own brash, bulldozer, agent sort of way. And of course she still wants to make movies. But right now, all Veronica wants is a reprieve, a chance to curl up at Katy’s small town _pied de terre_ and lick her wounds.  Is that really so much to ask?

Impulsively, Veronica grabs her keys and her purse, and straps herself into a pair of pink Valentino heels. She came here to regroup, to take her mind off of the maelstrom brewing back home – and fretting over Alexandra Cabot is not congruent with that, not even a little bit. But she’s got a pretty good idea of something that might. Veronica glances into the chased gold mirror that hangs beside the front door, adjusts a dark strand of hair away from her face, and heads out.

 

 

Veronica doesn’t know Riverdale well, but she knows how to find her way to its tiny downtown, and she knows how to look up the Riverags offices on Google Maps. It’s a nice day, clear and mild, and Veronica enjoys taking in the sights of quaint storefronts and colourfully painted houses as her stilettoes click down the pavement. When she passes a flower shop called Buds by Beazley, inspiration strikes Veronica, and she goes inside. 

A string of pale seashells chimes tinkle when Veronica enters the store, and her senses are flooded with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. She wanders towards a vivid display of freesias and tiger lilies and looks them over, considering. Within moments, a clerk approaches her.

“Can I help you?” The clerk is an older woman, and while her tone is gruff and curt, her eyes are kind. Veronica wonders if she’s Beazley.

Veronica smiles. “I hope so. This is beautiful—“ she waves at the freesia-and-lily bouquet, “—but I think I’m looking for something a little simpler.”

“For yourself?” Ms. Beazley asks.

“No for a – for a friend.” Veronica says awkwardly. She and Betty weren’t exactly besties (yet!) but hope springs eternal and all that.

“Hmph.” Ms. Beazley shoots Veronica a sharp, appraisingly look, and Veronica volleys back what she hopes is an earnest expression. Beazley’s face softens, and a sly note enters her voice. “Think I’ve got just the thing,” she tells Veronica. “For your… _friend._ ”

 

 

When Veronica leaves Buds by Beazley, she’s carrying a paper cone of violets accented with ferns. Beazley had sold it to her with a wink that makes Veronica wish she was more florally fluent, but with an enthusiasm that lends an optimistic bounce to Veronica’s step. 

She arrives at the squat office building that houses Riverags, and the first inklings of doubt start to seep in. Veronica remembers a dozen things that once: She barely knows Betty. She’s on the rebound. She’s a bit of a notorious figure. And isn’t showing up with flowers the day after a casual meet-cute coming on way too strong outside of a John Hughes movie?

At the same time, Veronica remembers the fullness of Betty’s smile, the lilt in her voice, the endearing way she tilted her head when she asked Veronica questions.

 _“Carpe diem, Lodge,”_ Veronica mutters under her breath. She pushes forward.

The Riverags headquarters are ensconced in a bright, open concept space, and Veronica spots Betty right away. She’s hunched over in a cubicle at the far end of the room, blonde ponytail bouncing as she furiously types away on her computer. Veronica starts the long walk through the wide office room.

Her entrance is noticed in a steady, swelling wave. Veronica notices it out of the corners of her eyes: the whip of chairs, the stunned glances giving way to careful murmurs. Veronica weaves through it, and heads straight for Betty’s desk. If this were a movie, Veronica thinks, she’d walk in time to a killer track. Instead, it’s endless and should be awkward, but Veronica keeps her chin high.

Betty looks up when Veronica approaches. Her eyes widen in shock. Her lower lip sucks between her teeth and she stops typing abruptly. “Veronica!?”

It already feels good, to hear her name in Betty’s mouth, so casual and familiar. It feels… comfortable, like something edging onto nostalgia that Veronica can’t quite begin to explain.

“What are you doing here?” Betty asks. Her glance darts towards her laptop, and her fists clench, like she wants to snap it shut. She next looks to the flowers that Veronica holds, and Veronica feels her own hands tighten.

She pauses. A touch of nervous tension clouds her intent, but Veronica isn’t easily given to awkward slips. She shakes it off.

“I wanted to thank you,” Veronica says. Her smooth tone belies the sudden hammer in her heart. “For such a lovely interview.”

“Oh!” More surprise colours Betty’s face. Veronica wonders distantly is she might be blushing. “No need. It’s my job.”

Of course it is. A million responses bubble to Veronica’s lips, ranging from too cordial to batshit intimate: Thanks all the same! Just being polite! And then: Thanks all the same. Your voice sounds like coming home. In the end, Veronica just holds out the flowers and smiles. “Well in that case, you’re very good at your job.”

Betty reaches out and takes the flowers. Like a goddamn movie, the edges of the world go soft when she does, and Veronica watches the small smile that blooms on Betty’s face when she holds the flowers close, the delicate sweep of her lashes when she closes her eyes and inhales.

“Thank you,” Betty says. “They’re beautiful.”

“I was hoping I could take you to dinner,” Veronica adds. She hears the words fall from her mouth before she even registers saying them.

Betty’s head jerks up and her lips part. Her eyes meet Veronica’s, and she looks utterly bewildered. “Why?”

Veronica isn’t too proud to admit that she’s an iota thrown. In the wake of that, she briskly admonishes herself. Like she thinks she’s such hot shit that she doesn’t expect a small town reporter to question her?

And it’s a fair question. _Why?_ Veronica carefully purses her lips. The truth is, she feels a connection to Betty. And she _doesn’t_ know why. And maybe that’s the point – she’d like the chance to find out.

“Just take the free dinner, Ace,” Veronica says cheerfully. “I’ve got us reservations at a place downtown. _Chez Papa_? Do you know it?”

Veronica only knows the place on Katy’s recommendation, but Katy has unparalleled taste – and from the look on Betty’s face, Veronica suspects she just named the _Spago_ of Riverdale.

“Yeah Veronica, I know it,” Betty says. Her voice is laced with a dry humour that makes Veronica’s heart flutter.

“That’s great!” says Veronica. “Eight o’clock then?”

Betty continues to look bemused. Idly, she strokes the spiny edge of one of the ferns in her bouquet. “Alright.”

Veronica’s skin is cracking; sunlight is leaking through the fissures. She bites back the goofy grin that threatens to follow. “Fabulous! I can’t wait.”

And then, because she’s always known the value of a dramatic exit (and because the murmurs of Betty’s office have started to reach a buzz that threatens overtaking their conversation at any moment), Veronica turns on her Valentino and walks out of the room, a new bounce in her step, a new sway to her hips.

She has a date to dress for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! work has been cray.


End file.
